


Just for One Day

by knowledgekid



Series: 3 Months in Fillory [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: F/M, Fillorian wine sucks, PWP, References to Depression, day-drinking and alcoholism, the fairy queen is f-ing creepy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 07:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16868998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowledgekid/pseuds/knowledgekid
Summary: Set just after Margo's secretly sold Eliot's baby to the fairies and Quentin's, um, loosed Alice from his back tattoo. Margo finds Quentin day-drinking. She's also been day-drinking, and the inevitable happens when there's alcohol, a horizontal surface, and two unstable Physical Kids involved.





	Just for One Day

Quentin’s drunk again. Margo can tell he’s drunk without opening the door, because she can hear, incongruously, 90s music dribbling out from underneath his heavy wooden door. It’s carved all over with Fillorian scenes of valor and glory: unicorns and gryffons and dwarves and walking trees and people riding panther-things, and behind it, that guy from Counting Crows with the dreadlocks is wailing that he is, indeed, the Rain King. Not her bowl of rice. Maybe if he’d been mind-playing some Indigo Girls or something. 

But she’s drunk too, so she pushes the door open anyway. 

There’s a bottle of Fillorian red on the side table. He’s swigging it straight by now. She holds up the bottle she’s brought: same wine, same vintage, boring, boring, boring, but it’s not like they have much choice over here. They need to use the button to bring in some decent booze. 

“You want some company?” she asks. 

“She’s been dying, and I’ve been drinking, and I am the rain king,” Quentin warbles for her benefit. God, he really can’t fucking sing. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Margo says. She plops down on his bed and pours herself a glass. She’s brought one of those, too. Q’s room faces west, and the Fillorian sun’s blazing down in a glory of pink and orange. This would be breathtaking if a fairy queen weren’t floating, stone-faced, in the middle of the balcony. Margo looks away and takes a deep drink as Quentin casts again and “Colorblind” starts up. 

“What’s with the Fillory and the Infinite Sadness tour?” she asks. 

He shrugs. 

“You shouldn’t drink alone like this,” she says. 

“I’m self-medicating. They don’t have Abilify in Fillory. So —” He shakes the bottle in her direction. “Anyway, since when are you worried my alcohol consumption?” 

“I’m trying to be supportive here.” She glances back at the balcony. The Fairy Queen is gone. Thank gods. She takes another chug of wine. You need a fair amount of this swill to get good and drunk, but she can manage it. So, apparently, can Quentin. 

“So you came all the way up here to be supportive?”

“I came all the way up here to see if you were channeling emo Quentin again. Which you are.” She’s lying, of course, but he’s too drunk to tell. He might drink alone, but she doesn’t. When Eliot flounced off to deal with some wedding thing, leaving her alone with the wine, she came looking for Quentin. 

He doesn’t bother to deny it, and she doesn’t have much to say, so they drink in silence for a while. When ”Colorblind” ends, Quentin switches musicians to Everclear’s “Santa Monica.” He sings, off-key, “I am still living with your ghost— Lonely and dreaming of the West Coast.” 

“Jesus, Q, could you stop Mickey Mousing this?” Margo asks, interrupting his solo. She chugs hard at the wine. “I get it. Alice, you know, did that whole niffin thing. You had to let her go free. The whole thing sucks Q, it really really really sucks. But you can’t sit up here and do nothing but get drunk. You’re a king in Fillory, for fuck’s sake. Isn’t this like, your life’s ambition?” 

“It was.” He drinks. “Until Alice.” He drinks again. Hard, like Mayakovsky. Gods, what she wouldn’t do for some of his vodka right now. 

“Yeah. Well. Shit changes. But Fillory needs you. Eliot needs you.” She doesn’t add I need you because it would have sounded stupid and desperate, and she emphatically does not do stupid and desperate. But she does need him. They all do. 

The fairy queen is staring again. Margo shivers and looks away from the balcony. Doesn’t that bitch have better things to do than fuck with her?

“Eliot needs to get fucking married so this wedding can be over,” Quentin says. 

“What was that? Eliot?” 

“And Fillory doesn’t need shit from me. I’m a shitty king.” 

“You’re a shitty king because you spend all your time drinking.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re a shitty queen because you spend all your time drinking or running earth errands for groomzilla.” 

“You’d drink if you had to deal with groomzilla, too. And fuck you.” 

“Fuck you right back, Margo.” 

The music ends. She casts this time —all the Physical Kids know the spell from throwing parties — and the opening riff of David Bowie’s “Heroes” echoes incongruously through the stone room. He really needs to get some more furniture in here. 

“And you accuse me of Mickey Mousing?” Quentin asks. He sings along, off-key. She drinks instead of wincing. 

“Q, what the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Come on, Margo. The lyrics are more than a little bit telling.” He flops back on the suitably royal velvet bedspread without spilling his wine, a feat which rather impresses her. “It’s like, practically a description of our current situation.” 

“I like Bowie, Coldwater. Sue me.” 

“I’d rather do other things to you.” 

She raises an eyebrow. This isn’t the sweet, bumbling Quentin she’s used to. “Really?” 

“Why else would you come up here?” 

There it is, laid out on the bed between them. They’re basically day-drinking in his royal chambers. She’s secretly sold Eliot’s baby to the fairies and he’s lost Alice. Neither of them is particularly stable, particularly sensible, or particularly prone to decent decision-making at the moment. What else would they be working towards but some kind of definitive distraction? 

At a rare lack of words, she takes another drink. At least the fucking fairy queen is gone again. 

“Margo.” He pulls her down next to him, and she manages to perch her glass on a side table. “Last time was good. Really good.” He leans over, sets his bottle on sloppily on the floor, turns towards her. “Just for one day,” he whispers in her ear. 

She has to admit it’s hot. Or maybe she’s just drunk enough to get seduced by Bowie lyrics. Not that it matters, because they’re suddenly making out like horny teenagers on prom night. He’s nipping at her lower lip, which always makes her breath hitch. Quentin brings his leg up and wedges it between her thighs. She presses hard against him and grinds on it. Gods, it feels good. She’s getting wet already, even though this stupid Fillorian dress is hiking up between them — why do these people have to dress like a fucking Renaissance fair all the goddamn time? It’s an asinine garment even if it does nice things to her tits. She sits up and turns around. 

“Sorry, was that —” Quentin is instantly contrite. It’s clearly the alcohol. 

“Unlace this fucker,” she says. “I can’t get it off without a maid.” 

“Oh,” he says, and it’s a drawn-out oh, a knowing oh. He scoots closer, brushes her hair out the way and starts kissing on the back of her neck. She normally loves that, normally goes into complete purring submission, but she’s impatient to get this dress off. “Q. Now.” He kisses down her back a moment before turning his attention to the intricate lacing. It takes him a moment to figure out to trick to it, but she’s soon dragging the yards of satin over her head, leaving her bare in a Fillorian corset and very earthly g-string. 

“What’s this?” Quentin asks. He traces the curve of the corset around her back, settles against her and reaches up to cup her breasts through it. They’re held high, with a visible line of cleavage. 

“It’s a corset, dumbass,” Margo says, before realizing he’d have no reason to ever see female Fillorian undergarments. 

“And you, you can be mean.” He breathes the Bowie line into the seashell curve of her ear. Quentin runs his hands over her breasts, his thumbs tracing across the top of the corset, against her naked skin. It barely hides her nipples, and she sucks in her breath. His hands trace down her sides, to the small waist held even smaller by the stays. 

“I assume this isn’t standard Fillorian issue.” Quentin plays at the edge of her g-string. 

“If you’re done commenting on my clothing,” she says, “you can finish taking it off.” 

“I like your clothing,” he says. He turns her, pulls her back down without unlacing anything else. It’s easier now to push close to him; his hands are everywhere on her, up and down the satin and lace. He hitches up his thigh again and she spreads her legs gratefully with a deep, low hum of pleasure. She’s grinding on him now, riding his leg shamelessly as he reaches down to cup her ass. He strokes down, between her legs, and she moans as he follows along the g-string, up and down between her ass cheeks and as far as he can reach. 

Which admittedly isn’t that far. But his thumb finds the tight pucker of her ass and rests against it, massaging gently, and she can’t help but buck harder against his leg. Quentin’s cock presses on her thigh in turn, and she can feel him hard through his linen pants. Renaissance fair bullshit again. From the feel of it, he’s not wearing anything underneath them, because they’re already dampening with precum. 

“You’re ruining your pants,” she purrs at him. “Let me take those off for you.” 

He pulls his thigh out from between her legs and yanks them down. She’s right: he was naked, and his cock is big, his foreskin pulled all the way back onto his shaft. “Better?” he asks. 

“Let me lick it off this time,” Margo says. She shimmies downward, keeping eye contact with him. When she reaches his cock, she positions herself between his legs, stares into his eyes, and grasps him in one fist. She doesn’t break her stare as she leans down and begins licking the head of his cock clean. Quentin moans. She finds the sensitive underside and works at it with the flat of her tongue in long, slow strokes. He’s dripping into her mouth now and she swallows. He’s lucky. She’s very particular about swallowing privileges. Her other hand cups his balls, eliciting another moan. His hands grab at her hair and tangle it in. She pulls back and withdraws with an audible pop. 

“Hold it for me, will you?” Margo asks. She gathers her long hair up. Bewildered, Quentin holds it in his hand as she leans back down and takes all of him in. She reminds herself to breathe as he hits the back of her throat and consciously relaxes around him. She tongues the base of his shaft. He’s gasping. She flicks her eyes to meet his and keeps deep-throating him. 

“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to come,” he manages. 

She pops off him again and returns to lie beside him, then kisses him, makes him taste himself on her. She can tell by how hard he kisses back that he likes it. He’s reaching down between her legs. His fingers come to rest just above her clit, and he begins rubbing in small circles, the satin making a delicious friction against her bare skin. Because he’s touching her hood, rather than her clit, he can use more pressure, and it’s just what she wants after the hard press of his thigh. She wonders idly where he learned that particular trick as she arches into his hand and makes tiny gasping sounds. She’s jerking him off like a teenager, sliding his foreskin over his head. They really need this makeout session to grow up, but both of them are too drunk to care. 

“I want to feel how wet you are,” he says, and moves his hand down, pushes her underwear aside. He slides his middle finger barely inside her. “Oh, you’re wet all right.” He strokes the outer edges of her slit. “And you shaved.”

“Waxed.” 

“Where the hell do you get a bikini wax in Fillory?” He keeps stroking her. He’s clearly enjoying the nakedness of her skin under his fingers, and she secretly loves the feel of his whole hand petting her at once, the wide spread of it touching all of her. She parts her legs wider for him. 

“There’s a button,” she says. 

“And why bother with a wax if you’re not getting laid?” he asks. 

She doesn’t answer, just moans as he slips his finger inside her again. She’s so sensitive right there, just at her entrance, and he seems to know it. He lazily moves his finger in slow circles, opening her up, stroking her, making her wet slit even wetter. 

“You like it so much, go down on me,” she says. 

Quentin glances at her. His finger stills and she swivels her hips to move it again.

“I said, I want you to eat my pussy,” Margo drawls. “Do I need to draw you a map, sweetheart?” 

Quentin is still looking at her, but his face is getting redder. And redder. “Look,” he says, “I’ve never — I mean, I was never with a girl who wanted me to. They were all weird about it for some reason. It’s not like I didn’t offer, all right?” He’s stopped fingering her now and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Well, honey, there’s a first time for everything,” she says smoothly. Damn, she’d known Alice was a prude, but not that much of a prude. “You just slide on down there and I’ll talk you through it.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Look, it’s not fucking rocket science,” Margo says. She’s getting impatient. “Please?” 

“Ooh, the high queen said please,” Quentin teases. “Better get to it, then.” 

“Good boy,” Margo says. She lies back against Quentin’s mound of pillow and spreads her legs wide for him. He kneels between them, pulls her g-string to the side and stares at her. She’s swollen with want and slick. His cock bobs between his own legs. “Do what you were doing with your fingers, honey,” she encourages. 

He leans down, finds a comfortable position, and slides his tongue into her. Well. That wasn’t quite what she meant, but she’ll take it. She stiffens, arches her back and cries out. He’s following her directions to the letter, swirling his tongue in her in slow circles, fucking her gently with it. She can feel his stubble against her sensitive skin. 

“It’s traditional to lick other parts, too,” she manages. 

“You taste good,” he says. His mouth and chin are wet with her. He begins licking her in long, slow strokes, from end of her pussy to the top of her clit. She wiggles under him and moans. Her fingers thread through his hair. Then he starts exploring her folds, licking and sucking while she bucks under him. Finally, finally, he hits her clit and she moans loud and deep. Most of the castle can probably figure out what they’re doing up here by now. If she were more sober she’d cast a silencing charm over the room, but she doesn’t really give much of a fuck at the moment. Because now that he’s found her clit, he’s figured out that it’s swollen, and he’s actually sucking on it. Her fists are balled up on the sheets underneath her now, holding her ass up higher for him. His tongue slips just under her hood, to that secret, almost unreachable spot, and she cries out and bucks, encouraging him, “There, there, right there, Q, right there, baby, fuck, right there, I’m going to —” and he stops. 

That bastard.

He sidles up to her, his chin and mouth wet. “Was that okay?” he asks innocently. He leans over and kisses her. She can taste the seawater scent of herself on his tongue. 

“No, you asshole, that was not okay. I was about to come,” she manages in between kisses. He’s not totally abandoned her; his middle finger has slid deep inside her, and he’s reaching for that sweet spot that’s going to make her scream if he can find it. 

“I didn’t want you to come,” Quentin says. “I want you to come on my cock.” He finds her g-spot and strokes it softly. She stiffens against him and makes a kitten-sound of want. 

“Oh, so you do need something inside you,” he says. “Ask for it.” 

“No.” Margo swivels on his finger, bucks her hips against it. She slides her hand down to his cock and grips it. It’s still damp from her sucking, miraculously, and she spreads his precum out over his head before she begins to jerk him off slowly. He moans, and she adds a slight twist to the end of each stroke. “You ask me for it.” 

“You want me to fuck you with that?” he says. 

“You want to come in that tight pussy?” she asks. “Doesn’t it feel nice and soft and hot and tight on your finger? Think how tight it’ll feel around your cock, Quentin. Just ask for it.” She shoves him gently onto his back. “I will ride you like my fucking horse,” she says.

“You’re a good rider,” he manages. 

She nips down and licks him, just once. “Do you want me to fuck you, Quentin?” 

“Please fuck me,” he gasps. 

“So easy just to ask,” she says. “Now take your fucking shirt off.” He shucks it, and she finally loses the stupid g-string as she straddles him and casts a contraception spell. Then she’s on top, guiding him inside her. He holds her satin-clad hips and practically drools over the sight of her above him. 

She sits for a moment, reveling in the full feeling of his cock inside her, finally. Then she leans forward. “Is this what you wanted so badly?” Margo asks, and she slides forward on him, then quickly back. He sucks his breath in audibly. 

“Or maybe this.” She’s kneeling, and she rises up and then down again, rocking backwards slightly as she takes all of him in. She hums with pleasure as he hits her g-spot. 

“That,” he manages. 

“This?” She does it again. He reaches up and runs his hands across the top of her breasts, stares into her cleavage. He’s really digging this Fillorian lingerie. 

She crouches over him. He rocks in and out of her, and she braces herself on each side of his head as she starts riding him for real now, posting on his cock like she’s trotting out her horse. With every downstroke, he strokes against her g-spot and she moans. His hips have risen impatiently off the bed now, and he’s fighting her to pick up the rhythm, to go faster. 

Margo’s not letting him have it. She leans down and kisses him. She can still taste herself on his tongue, and his stubble is somehow rougher on his damp face. Finally at the end of his patience, Quentin holds her satin hips firm above him while he bucks his hips up and drives his cock into her, deep and fast. She groans with pleasure, reaches down and touches her clit. Her wrist starts to hurt from holding herself up, so she lets go — that’s all it takes, usually, with another magician — and they’re floating up towards the ceiling. Sex magic can have its uses. 

Quentin is too far gone to notice. He’s lost, she knows, in the slick, tight friction of her. Her clit is swollen from his sucking and the sex, and she rolls it under her fingers, presses hard. She doesn’t have to do much; his thrusts move her hand for her. 

“God, that’s so hot,” he pants, and she realizes he’s probably never seen a girl touch herself before. Amateur. She arches back a little so he can see better, can see her hand slipped between them and feel her fingers moving against herself. She’s getting close; she presses harder. He pulls her hips tighter against him and drives himself deeper into her. “Oh my god, I’m gonna —” he manages before spilling inside her. The hot pulse of come is enough to push her over the edge, and she tightens on his cock, calls his name while she spasms around him. It feels even better this time, her own fingers knowing just how much pressure she can take to make her orgasm last. She rocks down on Q and up again, milking the cum out of him. He’s still going hard, jerking under her. She braces a hand on the ceiling before she hit her head. 

He finally opens his eyes. Those blue sparks again, they’re falling steadily to the floor. She wonders if that’s her or him or the combination thereof. He seems slightly startled to find himself floating. She lays flat out against him, doesn’t move to separate from him. The music has long stopped. 

“We’re on the ceiling,” he says in wonderment. 

“Hasn’t this ever happened to you before?” she asks. 

He shakes his head in utter bafflement. 

“Well, it’s just a day of firsts for you, isn’t it, Coldwater?” Margo presses gently on his chest and they’re drifting slowly back down onto his bed. They’ve totally fucked up the covers, messed pillows up, and spilled a bottle of wine. She sits up on him and, without taking him out of her, swigs from the other. He’s staring at her. 

“What?” she asks. He’s still occasionally twitching in her, spilling the last bits of cum. She adores that, but she’d never tell him how much. 

“You — look — fabulous,” he manages. 

“You say that to all the girls sitting on your dick,” she tells him, then leans down against him, kisses him on the mouth, and straightens her legs so he slips out of her. He groans softly. “Especially the ones wearing Fillorian corsets. I didn’t know you had a thing for lingerie, Q.” 

“Neither did I.” He runs his hands possessively over her again. “Next time I’ll find you instead of drinking.” 

“Next time, just don’t drink,” she says. 

“When’s Eliot coming back?” 

“Fuck if I know. Maybe in an hour. Maybe he’s already back.” She smirks at him. “Maybe he heard us.” 

“Then he’s probably jerking off.” 

She laughs for the first time in a long while. “Maybe he is. But I’m going to sleep.” She gathers the strewn covers. 

“Here?” Quentin sounds panicked. “What if someone finds out?” 

“Figure something out,” she says. “And don’t play any of that emo 90s bullshit, either. You just got fucked. Go to sleep or something.” 

He shrugs and curls around her. “Might as well.” She fits perfectly as the little spoon. 

“Quentin?” she asks. “One more thing.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Unlace this fucking corset before I go crazy.” 

She can feel him smiling, finally. “Yes, ma’am.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's been paying attention, Quentin's been Mickey-Mousing the hell out of this fic since the beginning (see the lyrics to "The Rain King", "Colorblind", and "Santa Monica."). Margo reeeeeeeally doesn't do much better when she mind-plays "Heroes" for him, but it fits the deep love I imagine her having for David Bowie (because really, who doesn't love David Bowie?). I totally see Quentin as a mix of sexually experienced and totally and completely naive, and yes: I think you can get to grad school without performing oral sex, if you're used to dating really prudish girls. 
> 
> This is totally PWP, though I imagine at some point I'll have to confront the fact that Q says he isn't aware she "likes any of the Quentins" when she says she hates emo Quentin. I think next time Eliot will have to join in — as much as he can, anyway. 
> 
> Remember that comments and kudos are loooooooove especially since I know the market for het PWP is skimpy at best. Also since I am still totally paranoid that I suck at this whole sex thing.


End file.
